


Dial by Fire

by weatherfront



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-23
Updated: 2010-08-23
Packaged: 2017-11-02 04:25:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/364944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weatherfront/pseuds/weatherfront
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur and Eames suck at phone sex.</p><p>(<a href="http://tornadobelt.livejournal.com/466.html">Fics not posted on AO3 are still on LJ.</a>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dial by Fire

Before they scatter in LAX like a handful of billiard balls that roll across the table, Cobb gives them their last set of instructions.

"Stay low," he says. "Whether we like it or not, word of this job is going to spread."

"Are we going to be famous?" asks Ariadne. "Am I going to be on TMZ?"

"You don't even read TMZ," says Yusuf.

"My friends do," says Ariadne. "I don't want them seeing pictures of me stumbling out of clubs at three in the morning with cocaine up my nose and my underwear in my purse."

She looks at Saito expectantly.

"Do you need something?" he asks.

"No, I..." Ariadne clears her throat. "Funny, I thought you were going to offer to buy TMZ for me."

"But you don't go to clubs," says Saito, "or take cocaine."

"This entire conversation is much too hypothetical to be useful," says Cobb. "Good job, team, now scram!"

 

 

 

Eames calls Arthur first.

"Hello, Eames," he says.

"How long are we supposed to do this?" asks Eames.

"According to Cobb, about two months," says Arthur. "Then it should be all right to surface again."

"I hate this part," says Eames. "Two months. Christ, that's a whole new level of torture. What are you up to?"

"Oh, you know," says Arthur. "In my hotel, just sitting in my underwear, looking for the Food Network."

"Wouldn't you rather I was looking for your prostate?" asks Eames.

"What a threadbare come-on," says Arthur. "You'd need to wait two months for that, anyway."

"Don't I know it," says Eames. "Hey, so I was thinking."

"It should be illegal for you to think outside of a job," says Arthur. "I'm dreading this already."

"Have you heard about how long-distance couples keep things interesting?" asks Eames.

"We're not a couple, Eames," says Arthur.

"Two people, Arthur," says Eames. "That makes a couple. Hear me out."

"Shoot," says Arthur. "Giada is on. You know how I can't resist her firecracker charms."

"All right, well," says Eames, "I was thinking that maybe we ought to try phone sex."

"Phone sex?" repeats Arthur. " _Phone sex?_ "

"Maybe you're familiar with the term?" asks Eames. "Let me tell you how it goes: you lounge on a bed, I call you from very far away, I tell you about all the filthy things I'd like to do to you, and overcome with desire, you shed your trousers and proceed to orgasm very loudly into the phone. Does that sound like a good time?"

"And then what," says Arthur, "I have to wait two months for you to actually do those filthy things to me?"

"There are some drawbacks to the plan," admits Eames.

"Giada is looking ravishing in that sweater tonight," says Arthur, and hangs up.

 

 

 

Three hours later, Arthur calls Eames.

"Should I tell you what I'm wearing?" asks Arthur.

"I think that's how it usually goes, yes," says Eames.

"Button-down," says Arthur. "Undershirt. Boxer briefs. And my watch."

"You should probably take the watch off first," says Eames.

There is a brief silence.

"Done," says Arthur.

"What, that's it? All right, then-- I suppose you should undo all the buttons on your shirt," says Eames, "slowly-- like they're my hands instead, like I can feel your heat of your body through the fabric--"

"That's ridiculous," says Arthur. "You _can't._ That's why we're not having _actual_ sex."

"Okay, Arthur," says Eames, "I don't think you know how to do this."

"Of course not," says Arthur. "How about I'll just take everything off first, and you can figure out what comes next?"

There's a rustle and a tap as Arthur presumably places his phone on the nightstand. Then his fingers must work their way down his shirt, long, steady fingers, firm as a surgeon's. And the lean hardness of his torso-- pale flecks of scar tissue, the disarmingly delicate pattern of veins down his arms-- the stretch of his stomach as he pulls the undershirt up over his head. The shift of his hips as he hooks his thumbs in the waistband of his boxers, and Arthur must arch slightly off the bed, wriggling free of all those unnecessary trappings of postlapsarian modesty, and it is one _very fine arse_ that slides back onto the sheets, and Eames wants nothing more than to touch him, _see_ him at least, and to kiss that quiet smugness off his face, to make him writhe and gasp and buck until he _begs_ for--

"Eames?" comes a voice from his phone. "Are you there, Eames?"

"What?" asks Eames, snatching his hand out of his own pants, feeling inexplicably guilty.

"You're not much better at this, are you," says Arthur.

 

 

 

A few days later, Eames calls Arthur. No matter how vivid his imagination might be, nothing can quite match the real thing; and in absence of Arthur himself, at least his voice might manage to help.

"About last time," says Eames.

"That didn't go very well," says Arthur.

"It's uncanny how when I talk to you, everything seems like it's all my fault," says Eames. "And it's only when I hang up that I realize, it's as much your fault as it is mine. You're very talented at that."

"But never let it be said that I don't hold up my end of a bargain," says Arthur. "By the way, Eames, I'm kneeling on my bed right now."

"What for?" asks Eames.

"What do you mean, what for?" asks Arthur. "So that you can get me off, obviously. I'm not wearing anything-- not a scrap of clothing. Fuck, I wish it were you touching me, but I'll have to make do. It's so hot in here, Eames. I can feel the sweat running down my back, come on, tell me to work myself open for you--"

"Tell you to _what?_ " chokes Eames, his mind whirling.

"I'd only need two of your fingers," says Arthur, "god, I love it when I can feel your knuckles push inside me, and your calluses rubbing across my ass, Eames, _fuck,_ and all I want is your cock buried deeper, moving harder, faster-- no, wait, sorry, that's faster first, and _then_ harder-- okay, that's confusing, let me start over--"

"...Arthur," says Eames, "are you reading this out of something?"

There is a brief silence.

"It was reviewed very favorably," says Arthur. "I thought it would help."

"Are you even actually naked right now?" asks Eames.

"Well," says Arthur, "I thought I'd get to that later."

 

 

 

"Eames," says Cobb, "what are you doing to Arthur?"

"Absolutely nothing," says Eames. "I haven't seen him in almost a month. I'm very lonely."

"Why was he asking me for recommendations on how-to books about phone sex?" asks Cobb.

"Look," says Eames, "I'll have you know--"

Cobb hangs up on him.

 

 

 

"Eames," says Ariadne, "what are you doing to Arthur?"

"Why is everyone asking me that?" demands Eames.

"I heard you were trying to get him into phone sex," says Ariadne.

"Arthur is twenty-nine! He's a grown man!" yells Eames. "Why are all of you mothering him like this? Why isn't anyone worried about _my_ innocence?"

Ariadne screams with laughter.

"Okay," says Eames, "that was only mildly amusing--"

Ariadne laughs, and laughs, and won't stop laughing.

Eames hangs up on her.

 

 

 

After about a week of careful planning, Eames is ready to tackle the challenge once more.

"I must say, I'm a little surprised that you're so bad at this," says Yusuf, settling into the couch.

"You people have such rigid preconceptions about me," says Eames. "I am a man of multiple dimensions. Sometimes, in some of those dimensions, specifically in the ones that concern phone sex, I will end up not being as experienced as you so unfairly believe I must be."

"I'm not sure if it's okay for me to feel victorious," says Yusuf. "But I do."

Eames calls Arthur, who answers on the first ring.

"I think it's time for a rematch," says Eames.

"It's not a fight," says Arthur. "But all right, we will handle this with all the enthusiasm and hormonal excitement that we usually reserve for fights. Bring it on, Mr. Eames."

"So," says Eames, "what are you wearing?"

"What a _trite_ opening," says Yusuf.

Eames gestures furiously at him, but it's too late.

"...Eames," says Arthur, "is there someone there with you?"

"No!" says Eames. "That would be immensely awkward!"

"Unless it's someone who already knows how embarrassing you can be," says Arthur. "Someone you've known for several years. Someone you met in Mombasa."

"Yusuf is there?" comes a faint voice from Arthur's end of the call.

"...Arthur," says Eames, "is there someone with you?"

"Hold on," says Arthur, "let me explain--"

"That's Saito!" exclaims Yusuf. "Hello, Saito!"

"Yusuf!" says Saito. "How have you been doing?"

"Quite well for myself, actually!" says Yusuf. "I mean, it's nothing compared to the vast fortunes you've amassed, but all in all, I've been very lucky in my ventures so far."

"I congratulate you on your industry," says Saito. "Are you in need of an investor, by any chance?"

"Why is _Saito_ there with you?" yells Eames.

"There are children in Cobb's house!" yells Arthur. "And I couldn't very well ask Ariadne!"

 

 

 

It's been about a month and a half when they speak again.

"We've already made contact with the other members of the team," says Eames, glumly. "There's no real reason why we can't just see each other."

"Not the same," says Arthur. "Yusuf is very low-profile still, and Saito is technically a civilian. But we have tracks, Eames. We'll just have to wait out the rest of this month."

"I think I'm becoming lopsided," says Eames. "You know, because I only use the one arm for the wanking."

"Good chance to practice ambidexterity," says Arthur.

"Cut that out," says Eames. "You're being unfair. Don't act like you're so composed, like you're perfectly fine where you are, Arthur. I know you miss me. I know you miss my penis."

There's a brief silence.

"Your penis a little more than you," says Arthur, but his voice is soft.

"I'll take what I can get," says Eames. "Do you think about it? When you're rubbing one out?"

"Oh, god," says Arthur, "all the time."

Eames feels the back of his neck run hot, and the salt breeze from the sea isn't nearly enough to quench the burn.

"Tell me," he says, hand tightening around the railing.

"I like to lie back when I do it," says Arthur. "I don't even take my underwear off all the way, I can't wait that long-- it just catches around my ankles, and I prop my knees up, and I spread my legs-- I pretend you're leaning over me, with your breath in my ear, _telling_ me to spread my legs. And I'm already so fucking hard, but I want to draw it out, the way you always draw it out, so I-- so I suck my fingers wet and pretend they're yours, and I fuck myself until I can't stand it anymore, Eames, oh, god, and it's never enough, never right like the way your cock fills me up--"

" _Oh my god,_ " breathes Eames, and his phone falls from his nerveless grip.

He watches it plunge into the endless blue depths of the Aegean.

He doesn't even go inside, just falls into a chair there on the balcony and masturbates like there's no tomorrow.

 

 

 

It takes Eames days to discreetly get his hands on a new phone.

"It's about time," says Arthur, frosty.

"I'm sorry," says Eames. "I dropped my phone into the ocean, and--"

"I can't believe you just stopped calling," says Arthur. "After I went on and on like that! Do you think it was easy for me? Do you think I wasn't expecting something from you in return?"

"Wait," says Eames, "you're confusing your embarrassment for hatred again--"

Arthur hangs up on him.

Eames calls back.

"It's been almost two months," he says. "Screw the last week, let's meet. I'm in Los Angeles."

"Wrong continent," says Arthur, and hangs up.

 

 

 

"Turkey?" guesses Eames, when he lands.

"Slightly warmer," says Arthur.

"Do you mean I should try for a warmer climate, or do you mean I'm getting closer?" asks Eames.

"What do you think?" asks Arthur, and hangs up.

 

 

 

"I really thought you'd be in Paris," says Eames. "You're always in Paris."

"Not this time, Mr. Eames," says Arthur.

"Am I warmer?" asks Eames.

"Slightly," says Arthur, and hangs up.

 

 

 

"I'm at Stockholm-Arlanda," says Eames.

"Even warmer," says Arthur.

"Should I head east or west from here?" asks Eames.

"Try east," says Arthur. "When's your flight?"

"I can arrive at Vantaa at half past five today," says Eames.

"Maybe I'm there," says Arthur, "maybe not."

"You're in Vantaa," says Eames. "When I catch you, I'm going to--"

Arthur hangs up.

Eames corners him at the information desk at Helsinki-Vantaa, when the night outside is already dark through the slanting panes of glass, and Arthur's face is pale as a slice of the moon under the fluorescent lights of the airport.

"Hot," says Arthur. "Burning hot."

"I'll have you know there was nothing to be embarrassed about," says Eames. "I dropped the phone because of how fucking aroused I was. By you. I just wanted you to know that. For your information."

"Suffice it to say," says Arthur, "we both appear to be terrible at this phone sex thing."

"Maybe that's all right," says Eames. "After all, we are perfect in all other respects. We must have some flaws in order to remain human."

Arthur smiles, despite himself, and takes Eames' suitcase from him.

"What are your feelings toward my penis right now?" asks Eames as they stroll out into the open air.

"Hot," says Arthur. "Burning hot."

"Never leave me again," says Eames. "Two months! It seemed interminable."

"True," says Arthur. "It was about two months too long to go without this."

And he moves briskly past Eames, a gloved hand brushing across the front of Eames' trousers, almost curling -- for the briefest of moments -- around the bulge he finds there. If he didn't know any better, Eames would think that Arthur was leering.

Eames doesn't know any better. He never has.


End file.
